


Blow Away

by 221Btls



Series: Happiness is a Warm Gun [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: "G" rating is for no sex but there's profanity, John swears, M/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-09 01:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11658546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: The bomb is ticking. Can John save his and Sherlock's lives?Blow Away is a continuation of Happiness is a Warm Gun. It's not a standalone.  (Yes, I'm weak. I had to write a follow-up.)





	Blow Away

John blinked, a rapid flutter that lasted but a split second. Long enough to know his gun hadn’t fired. He glanced from the bomb to Sherlock’s questioning eyes, his own furrowed brow saying _I don’t know the fuck why not!_ Swinging the gun so it pointed at the far end of the room, John pulled the trigger a second time. Nothing. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

Blood pounding in his ears didn’t drown out the sound of the still-ticking bomb, it’s sharp, rhythmic beat grating. Telling him that he needed to think. Fast. He couldn’t fail.

He checked his gun, a rushed stream of epithets tripping off his tongue as he swore at the _goddamn fucking kidnappers_. At Mycroft. _Bloody useless government minion._ At Sherlock. At himself. 

 _I brought an empty clip._ John stopped breathing. _I DIDN’T FILL THE BLOODY CLIP._ Humiliation and rage filled him, and his usual arsenal of profanity failed him. He just didn’t have strong enough words. 

“John.” 

John slapped at his pockets, shoved his hand inside. _Nothing._ In his haste to reach Sherlock, he hadn’t checked the arsing clip or grabbed another.

“John.”

John slumped in defeat. _Sherlock. How do I tell Sherlock?_

“JOHN!”

Sherlock’s bark pierced John’s red haze.

“What?!” John snapped at Sherlock, the man who, still trapped by the laser beams and the emotional blackmail of the bomb, looked utterly unfazed.

Sherlock’s fathomless blue eyes bored into John, and the tick, tick, ticking faded to a whisper. John stopped moving and let himself be hypnotized. Let himself breathe. Just for a moment. Until the blood in his veins warmed his limbs and loosened the tension in his muscles.

“Sherlock, I–”

“You’ve got this. I trust you.” And Sherlock nodded, one sharp tip of his head.

 _All right, then._ “Greg! Your gun.” John’s gaze still locked with Sherlock’s, he dropped his gun to the floor and held out his empty hand. Greg’s footsteps resonated on the concrete floor, and the heavy weight of a gun filled John’s open hand. Palming the gun, he guessed it to be a Glock 17. Not his weapon of choice, but he didn’t have a say in that right now, did he?

“How much time we have left, Sherlock?”

“Oh, I’d say about forty-five seconds,” Sherlock said, startlingly imprecise.

John’s eyes had left Sherlock just long enough to check the sight on the gun. And when he looked up, for the first time since John had seen him in the warehouse, Sherlock looked uncertain. His shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, and his eyes narrowed as if in deep thought. His lips, usually full and inviting, were drawn into a line.

Sherlock parted his mouth and spoke, the crease in his brow deepening. “I heard what you said.”

“Yeah, okay. That’s good.” Awareness pressed on John that they had mere seconds left. “Don’t have time right now. You know.” John’s head dipped toward the bomb, a painful grimace carving into his face. _What’s Sherlock talking about?_

“This could be my last chance.”

_And you didn’t think of that before?_

_“_ John.”

“Yes, Sherlock.” John licked his lips, one finger firm on the trigger, his thumb stroking the surface of the gun.

“I—” Sherlock broke their gaze.

“Can’t it wait, Sherlock? Kinda busy here, trying to save our lives and all.”

“Yes, John. I know.” A storm passed quickly over Sherlock’s face. “But if I don’t say it now, I might regret it the rest of my life.”

John’s laugh, born of discomfort at the grim irony, was cut short.

“I love you, too, John.”

_Oh._

_Oh._

John shifted on his feet, righting himself into a shooting stance, his hand sure _._ “Well, then let’s get on with this, shall we?” And loud enough that there was no mistaking Sherlock would hear him, John said, “I love you. Always have.”

And he pulled the trigger…

What happened next was anti-climatic, really, the way the laser beams silently retreated as if they’d been a figment of their imaginations. The way the bomb stopped ticking, reduced to a pile of useless, twisted metal on the floor.

John held his breath, waiting to believe it was over. Daring not look at Sherlock. What if Sherlock’s declaration had been a ruse? _Probably used my own emotions against me to get what he wanted._ That’s what Sherlock did, used people against themselves. John didn’t want to see the beautiful face, that had so recently been etched with what looked like real emotion, revert to the façade of someone who took painstaking care to pretend nothing mattered.

“I didn’t mean what I said.” Somehow, Sherlock was standing beside him, close enough that John could smell the morning’s after shave still lingering on his skin. Could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s breath on his face and the rumbling voice.

“Listen, Sherlock. You don’t have to say anything.” John’s eyes followed Greg hurrying toward a duffle bag-toting Mycroft, more to avoid looking at Sherlock than anything else. “I get it. Use the tools you need to get the job done. Just so happened, this time the tool you needed was, well, you know, that thing you said.”

“No, John. You don’t get it.”

And bracing himself against the pain that was sure to come, John turned to his flatmate. “Okay. What don’t I get?”

“What I meant to say is that I’m _in_ love with you. If that’s–if it’s–all right...” The question hung heavily in the air between them.

John searched Sherlock’s face, but as much as he tried, he couldn’t find the artifice. _He’s not lying. Dear God, he’s not lying._

John’s fingers twitched, begging to reach for Sherlock’s, but now wasn’t the time. Not for the first time they touched. Not with Greg and Mycroft and a herd of officers heading their way. No, there would be time enough later.

So he simply smiled at Sherlock, a crooked hint of a smile that belied the delicious flutter of anticipation inside, and said, “Yeah, it’s all right with me. Quite all right, in fact.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Blow Away is by George Harrison. Catchy little tune.


End file.
